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MT MOTHEE 


MALE FROM HUMBLE LIFE IN ENGLAND. 


By JOHN ASHWORTH. 


Republished in this country by 

s -A. m: TJ e; Xi esva-ns, 

or BEAVER CO., PA. 




jJTOTK 


'TfiE reader may rest assured that these Narratives are substantf-* 
ally true, as hundreils in Koehdale and its neigh-borhood can testify^ 
The names given are the real names of the persons nrontioned^ 
and many of them are still alive. 

For a long time I have been a visitor amongst tbe poor and the 
outcast, and four years ago opened for them a place of worship,- 
called the“Cbapel fjr the Destitute," to which large eongregationn 
have gathered of the reallf destitute, ^ome of these Tales havef 
been given in my Annual Keports, and their favorable reception 
induces nae to offer them for a wider circulation^ 

I am a tradesman, and make no pretension to literary ability.- 
If He whom I desire to serve condescends to use me as a medium 
of good to others, my earnest v/ish will be realized. To Him my 
prayer has been, “Hold, Thott, my right hakd.” 


Broadjield, Rochdale j 
October, 1868^. 


J, ASHWORTH, 



A Co.. PfUw., Pittsburgh 


e'.T, 3 


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'■'f 

MY MOTHEE. 


J UST on the outskirts of Roolidale, on the side of the 
highway leading to Manchester, at a place called 
Sparth, there formerly stood a large stone table, sup- 
ported by three thick stone pillars. Here, in by-gone 
days, eonntry farmers brought their milk, and were 
met by their town customers with pitchers : owing to 
this custom it was designated the Milk stone. Under- 
neath it many a school- boy had taken shelter from the 
storm, and on the top of it many a weary traveler laid 
down his heavy burden. 

Amongst the many thousands that made this stone a 
resting-place, two have a special interest. 

One cold winter day, a young man was seen going 
from Rochdale towards Marsland Workhouse with an 
old man on his back : the young man’s strength being 
exhausted, he set down the old man in a sitting posture on 
the xMilkstone. While both were resting, the old man 
began to weep most bitterly. “You may cry as hard 
as you like,” said the young man, “but to the Work- 
house you shall go, if my legs can carry you; for I will 
not be burdened with you any longer,” 

“1 am not weeping because thou art taking me to 
the Workhouse, my son, but because of my own cruelty 


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to thy grandfather. Twenty-five years since, this very 
day, I was carrying him on my back to the Workhouse, 
and rested with him on this very stone. He wept, and 
begged I would let him live with me the few days he 
had to live, promising to rock and nurse the little child- 
ren, and do anything that he could ; hut I mocked his 
sorrow, turned a deaf ear to his cries and tears, and 
took him to the Workhouse. It is the thought of such 
cruel conduct to my poor old dead father that makes me 
weep.” The son was amazed, and said, — 

Get onto my back, father, and I will take you home 
again, for if that be the way, my turn will come next : 
it seems it is weight for weight. Get on to my back, 
and you shall have your old corner, and rock the little 
children.” 

One hot summer day, a poor woman was seen toiling 
up the hill called Fletcher Round, with a flannel “piece” 
on her back. A little boy was walking by her side. 
On reaching the Milkstone she laid down her heavy bur- 
den, and leaning on the “ piece ” for support, she 
wiped the sweat from her face with her check apron. 
With a look of affection, the boy gazed into the face of 
his mother, and said : “ Mother, when I get a little 

bigger you shall never carry another ‘ piece.' I will 
carry them all, and you shall walk by my side.” 

On that very day the painful fact flashed into the 
mind of that little boy that he was the poor child of 
poor parents — the young son of an humble, toiling, kind, 
and affectionate mother. But as he grew bigger and 
stronger he redeemed his promise, and carried the 


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“ pieces ” up Fletcher Round, and on to Mr. Whit- 
worth’s warehouse at Sparth without calling at the 
Milkstone to rest. His love for his mother was deep 
and lasting, and from his own pen we have the 
following sketch of her life, — The Tale of My 
Mother.” 

The impression made on my mind on that hot sum- 
mer day, while my mother was resting and wiping the 
sweat from her flushed face, was amply confirmed in my 
after life. On awakening to a sense of our social posi- 
tion as a family, I found we were not amongst those 
considered respectable in our neighborhood. The test 
of respectability consisted in having a set of mahog- 
any drawers, an eight-day clock in a mahogany case, 
a holiday-shirt for the young men, and a printed dress 
with a large flounce for the young women. Many of the 
flannel weavers in our village could boast these posses- 
sions ; and they held up their heads above others not 
so fortunate. But the real aristocracy were those who 
used tablecloths, had knives and forks to eat with, and 
displayed a muslin window-blind on a Sunday. One 
family had a room they called a parlor, the floor of 
which w'as covered with a carpet ; a second-hand table- 
piano also figured largely, which was looked upon by 
us as a mark of great wealth and respectability. This 
family held quite a distinct position. Hone of us ever 
presumed to be even on speaking terms with such 
‘‘ great folks.” 

One Saturday evening I was playing with my com- 
panions, when my mother gently laid her hand on my 

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head and requested me to go with her into the house. I 
took up my marbles and quietly followed her. 

“ What do you want me for, mother ? It is not time 
to go to bed yet ; let me play a little longer, will you ? 

“ I know it IS soon to call you from your play ; but 
I can not help it. Your trousers want mending, and 
I want to wash your shirt ; for though we are poor, we 
ought to be clean. I intended to get you a pair of clogs, 
but I am not able. I am making you a pinafore out of 
part of a wool-sheet ; it will cover your ragged clothes, 
and you will then look a little better." 

The quiet way in which she spoke, and the sad look 
which accompanied her words subdued all my objections. 
I silently walked up stairs to allow her to begin washing 
and patching ; and while my playfellows were still 
laughing and shouting in the street, I crept naked into 
my humble bed — not to sleep, but to think and to 
weep. My mind wandered far into the future that 
night. What air-castles I did build ! I thought I 
grew to be a man, entered into business, made money, 
built a new house with a white door and brass knocker 
to it, planted trees around it, and had a lawn and a 
garden ; — bought myself new clothes, and twenty shirts; 
bought my mother a new crimson cloak and a new 
bonnet, and gave her plenty of money to buy clothes 
for my brothers and sisters, and to get a set of mahog- 
any drawers, an eight-day clock, and muslin curtains 
to the window ; — I then fell asleep a man of great im- 
portance, and awoke in the morning — without a shirt I 

Sunday morning ever found my mother doing all she 


could to get us away in time for school. She rose the 
first and lighted the fire, got ready the breakfast, 
dressed the younger children, and helped us all. This 
Sunday morning I was going to have on my new 
“ bishop,” to cover my patched garments. I shall 
never forget that new pinafore. The wool sheets had 
at that time stamped on them, in large black letters, the 
word WOOL. My mother had got one of those old 
sheets as a gift from the warehouse ; but it was so far 
worn that she could not make my pinafore without 
either putting on a patch, or cutting through the let- 
ters. She chose the lesser evil, thinking she could wash 
out the letters; but though she washed, and washed, 
and washed again, she could not destroy the remaining 
half of the word. I put my arms down the sleeves, and 
was stretching the front, when I saw the letters. My 
little spirit sank within me in bitter sorrow. I looked 
into my mother’s face ; but when I saw the tears in her 
eyes I instantly said, — 

Never mind, mother ; never mind. It will do very 
well. It covers my patches ; and when I get to school 
I will sit on the letters, and then no one will see them. 
Don’t cry, mother; we shall be better off yet.” 

Away I went to the Sunday-school, with bare feet, 
and a pack-sheet pinafore, with half the letters WOOL 
down one side, to take my place in the third Bible-class, 
among boys who were much better dressed, and who did 
not like to sit beside me on that account. 

I well remember the place where I sat that day ; — 
how I put my bare feet under the form to prevent my 


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proud class-mates from treading on my toes, — the feel- 
ing that I was poor distressed me. But I knew that if 
I did not continue to go to school my mother would be 
grieved; and I could not bear the thought of grieving 
her. To think I had left her in tears made me sad ; but 
w^hen I saw her come to the service, and saw her look 
down at me from the gallery and smile, all was right 
again. I could smile in return, and join in singing 
God’s praises, and hope for better days. 

If ever mother understood the full meaning of those 
beautiful words, — “I was glad when they said. Let us go 
up to the house of the Lord,” I believe my mother did. 
Nothing astonished me more in her character than to 
see her quiet, steady, Christian conduct. Yet a hun- 
dredth part of the trials she had constantly to endure 
would have caused thousands to sit down in hopeless sor- 
row. I now believe she never went to the sanctuary with- 
out a petition, for she never went without a trouble. And 
I also believe she left many of her troubles behind ; be- 
cause God fulfilled His promise in delivering her. And 
the day she smiled on her poor ragged boy out of the 
gallery I thought she smiled through her tears. 

It was the custom in our Sunday-school, to give the boy 
who was first in the class when the bell rang for clos- 
ing in the afternoon, a round tin ticket of merit, bear- 
ing a figure one. These tickets were collected once, 
each year, and the boy having the largest number had 
the most valuable prize presented to him. Teachers, 
scholars, parents, friends, and members of the congre- 
gation assembled in the large school-room on Whit 


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Friday to have tea, and to witness the distribution of 
the prizes. One year, I had just one more ticket than 
any other boy in the school ; and, consequently, I was 
entitled to receive the highest honor. The evening be- 
fore that memorable day on which I was to receive my 
prize, I was very unhappy on account of still being 
without shoes or clogs, and I said to my mother, as 
gently as I could, — 

“ Mother, do you think you could get me a second- 
hand pair of clogs for to-morrow ? I am going to have 
the highest prize, and shall have to go up the steps on 
to the platform, and I shall be ashamed to go with my 
bare feet.” 

She was darning my father's stockings when I made 
the request. She made no answer at the moment, but 
put her hand to her breast, and appeared to be suffer- 
ing great pain. Oh, how I repented having spoken ! 
I would have traveled a long way with my bare feet 
could I have recalled that sentence which seemed to 
have caused my mother such intense suffering on that 
night. Long was she silent ; and long did 1 wait for 
the words that would express the state of her mind. 
At length she said, — 

“I know you are going to have the first prize at the 
school, my child, and I have done all that I could to 
send you there decent. I have tried to borrow a shilling 
from the publican's wife, where your father takes much 
of his earnings, but she scorned me, and refused to lend 
it me. I have been to several of our neighbors to ask 
them to lend me the money, but our well known pov- 


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erty seems to have separated us from all help. There 
are few greater calamities in this world than to be a 
drunkard's wife, or a drunkard’s child. I often pray 
that God will keep me from murmuring, and that we 
may have His guardian care. I do not wish to say one 
word against your father, and I hope none of my chil- 
dren ever will ; for, after all, he i% your father. Let us 
trust in the Lord ; be good, and do good, and the light 
of heaven will yet shine on our path. To the godly, 

^ sorrow may endure for the night, but joy cometh in 
the morning.* ” 

“ But we have a very near relation, mother, who 
dresses like a gentleman. They say he has as many 
Sunday waistcoats as there are months in the year. 
You know he called a few days since to let us look at 
the fine cloth he bad bought for a new overcoat; and 
he told us he had given three guineas for it. Shall I 
go and ask him to lend us two shillings ? ” 

“ You may go, but I don’t think you will get it ; and 
it is two miles to his house.” 

Away I went. 1 was soon there, for I could run 
swiftly. But when I got to the house, my courage 
failed me. I stood for a long time near the door, first 
on one foot, and then on the other, warming them by 
turns with my hands ; for the night was wet and cold„ 
At length the proud man saw me, came to the door, and 
enquired my errand. 

Will you be so kind as to lend mother two shillings 
to buy me a second-hand pair of clogs ? I have noth- 
ing to put on my feet, and I am going to receive my 


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reward to-morrow at the school. I hope yon will lend 
it to her.’' 

Tell your mother that when she has paid me back 
the eighteen-pence she borrowed some time since, I will 
then talk about the two shillings, and not till then. 
Never mind your feet 5 toes were made before clogs.” 

On returning home, my mother saw by my counten- 
ance that I had not got the money. Our looks of sor- 
row met. Little was said ; and I went quietly to bed. 

The following day I washed my feet for a long time. 
I was determined that if I could not get anything to 
cover my ten toes, I would make them look clean. I 
was at the school before the time, and sat in one corner 
alone. Soon the people began to gather. On the plat- 
form there stood a large table, covered with a white 
cloth. On the cloth, the prizes were arranged with as 
much display as possible. Books, penknives, pocket- 
knives, inkstands, a small writing desk, and other valu- 
ables arrested the attention of all who entered the 
school. The ceremony was opened by singing a hymn. 
Then one of the Superintendents (the present Sir 
James Kay Shuttleworth,) mounted the platform, and 
made a speech,-“eulogizing the scholars for their good 
conduct during the year, and holding up to view the 
various rewards while speaking. When he came to the 
first prize he called out my name, and invited me on 
to the platform amidst a loud clapping of hands. O, 
how my heart did beat ! I felt at that moment as though 
I would have given twenty pounds, if I had possessed it, 
for something with which to cover my feet. I arose 


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from my corner, and threading my way through the 
people as softly as though I were a cat, I walked blush- 
ingly on to the platform, and received my reward of 
merit amidst the repeated clapping of the audience. 
But when 1 got back to my place I sat down and cried 
as though my heart would break, because I was such a 
poor, poor boy, and because I thought some of the 
other boys sneered at my poverty. 

And here, though a little out of order, I will mention 
a circumstance that took place about twelve years after. 
I was then grown into a young man, and the church 
had determined that I should take a very important 
place among them. Though the incidents in my 
mother’s life already related produced a lasting im- 
pression on me, yet I never saw her weep as she did on 
the following occasion. My memory will ever retain 
the scenes and feelings of that eventful hour. It was one 
Sabbath evening, my mother, as usual was seated in her 
pew in the house of God. The congregation was very 
large, and all were silently waiting for the appearance 
of the preacher. He, poor man, was on his knees in 
the vestry, praying for Divine help, and trembling with 
fear. One of the deacons opened the vestry door, and 
the young preacher rose from his knees and ascended 
to the pulpit. There was an elderly female among the 
congregation whose lace was covered with her hands, 
and whose head was bowed in deep reverence. Large 
tears streamed down her pale cheeks, and her whole 
soul was greatly affected. That woman was my own 
dear mother! — and the young, trembling, timid preacher 


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was myself! — her once little barefooted, ragged boy 
— her own dear child. When I gave out the first line 
of the hymn, and the congregation rose to join in cele- 
brating God’s praises, my mother’s head was still bowed 
down. Poor, dear mother — how she loved me ; and yet 
she feared on my account. The sight of her made the 
tears run down my face and drop upon the Bible ; it was 
a moment of intense emotion, and I greatly feared my 
strength would fail me. The events of the past came 
vividly up in my memory. I saw the corner where I 
sat on the morning I had on my pinafore made from th« 
old pack-sheet, and the form under which I put my bare 
feet. But now, we had met again in the sanctuary ; — 
she to weep for joy, and I, her son, — a sinner saved by 
grace and a preacher of the gospel of peace. 

The combined influences producing this change of 
circumstances arose, principally, from two causes. My 
mother was a praying woman^ and a consistent Chris- 
tian. She did not make a loud profession, but meekly 
and patiently carried her heavy cross under the most 
grievous privations, sufferings, and persecutions. She 
never returned evil for evil, or railing for railing. I 
am perfectly amazed when I think that for forty years 
she should have been able to bear up under her many 
and severe trials without repining, — so long have drunk 
her very bitter cup without being driven to despair. 
But I have said she was a praying woman, and that ex- 
plains everything. But she was obliged to pray in 
secret; and very often her week-night attendance at 
the means of grace was taken by stealth, or as fre- 
B 


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quently refused with abuse. Still she held on her way 
#amidst every storm — living a life of faith in the Son 
of God, and enduring to the end. Praying mothers 
never forget their children. The most powerful plead- 
ings at the throne of grace are those offered by parents 
on behalf of their offspring. The mothers of Israel 
are not the only mothers who have brought their young 
children to Jesus. 

I well remember one of my mother’s prayers. It 
being the wakes at Rochdale I had risen early, to have 
a long play-day. I was not aware that any one in the 
house had risen before me, and was softly creeping down 
stairs, fearing to disturb any of the family, when 1 
heard a low voice. I sat down on the steps to listen. 
It was my mother’s voice; and she was praying for all 
her children by name. I leaned forward, and held my 
breath lest I should miss one word. I heard her say, 
“Lord, bless John ; keep him from bad company, and 
make him a good and useful man.” Her words went 
to my young heart ; and they are ringing in my ears to 
this hour. “Lord, bless John.” That short prayer, 
uttered by my mother when she thought no one heard 
her but God, has been to me a precious legacy. 

Another influence for good has arisen from my at- 
tending regularly at Sunday-school. 'From the first 
day I went, to the day I am writing this narrative, I 
have never left the Sabbath-school ; and I have had tens 
of thousands of blessings as a consequence. I have 
risen, step by step, from the alphabet class to the Su- 
perintendent’s desk, and from that to the pulpit. The 




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Sabbath- school has been a blessing to millions^ but to 
none more than myself. The twelve boys who com- 
posed our class at my first Sunday-school made a vow 
never to leave — promising each other that they would 
work conjointly in the school so long as they lived. 
Only two out of the twelve have kept their vow ; and 
only those two have prospered in this world. Five, 
out of the ten who left, have died the drunkard’s death. 
A mother’s prayers and the Sunday-school have been 
my safeguard and blessing. 

The air-built castles of the night I went to bed a 
little boy without a shirt have been, to some extent, 
realized. The house, the garden with the trees around, 
are now real facts ; but nothing has given me greater 
pleasure than Providence enabling me to help my dear 
parents in their old age. Once every fortnight for 
many years I went to see them, and on one of these 
visits, on enquiring for my father, my dear mother in- 
formed me he was gone into a neighboring wood. On 
going to join him, I found him engaged in prayer. I 
stepped back for fear of disturbing him, and ran home 
to tell my mother. She smiled through her tears, say- 
ing: ‘‘Our prayers are heard at last, and my sun is now 
setting in a clear sky.” 

^ 1 never heard my mother speak an unkind word to a 
beggar. She had but little to give them, but she always 
spoke kindly ; nor was she ever known to differ with 
her neighbors. All of them brought her their troubles, 
for she was full of pity for all in distress, — her own 
experience taught her to sympathize with the sorrowful 


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I once told her I thought her religion was of a very 
quiet description, something like that of the Friends. 
Her answer was : “I have found the church has always 
been the most disturbed with its loudest professors, and 
that little talkers are often the best workers.” No 
doubt my mother’s observation and experience led her 
to the above conclusions ; yet it does not hold good in 
every case. There are many great talkers who are 
good workers. Constitutional temperament has much 
to do with talking, either much or little. 

The minister and elders of the ohurch of which my 
mother was a member held her in the highest esteem, 
and on her leaving them to join the church above, 
ordered for her a funeral sermon. Eight sons and 
daughters were present on that mournful occasion, and 
now the remains of both my parents repose in the 
burying ground belonging to Bamford Chapel : my 
father, aged seventy five, — and mother, seventy-seven. 
Sacred is that place to me, and never do I stand beside 
that hallowed spot, but I thank God for a meek, 
patient, Praying Mother ! 



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